


Goodnight Little Chatterbox

by c250358 (orphan_account)



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Other, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/c250358
Summary: Loose lips sink ships. You laughed at the expression before. There was no war, no need to be quiet. Information is shared freely. What harm could it cause?Of course, you were wrong.Oneshot
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Goodnight Little Chatterbox

You were taught that information is free, that everyone deserves it. You were never taught how to keep your mouth shut, and secrets close to your heart. You were a little chatterbox, prattling on for hours about any and everything that you thought of. You were cheerful and excitable, energetic and naive. Your innocence was refreshing to those old ladies that coo over children, those adults who want to preserve innocence, but you were warned by others, by war veterans, by that homeless man who always begged for money near the bakery at noon, by those who pity your innocence and the day it will be destroyed. They said for you to keep your secrets secret, that loose lips sink ships, but secret wasn't a word in your vocabulary. You did not heed their warnings. 

Your closest friend was your brother. He protected you, and you, in turn, bolstered him. When he got an important job, you were ecstatic. You helped him however you could, and he always protected you from things that would kill your innocence. Then you saw a letter of his. There was sensitive information. It turned out to be top secret. He was arrested for treason and killed at the hand of the firing squad. You forced your way in; it was your fault, you needed to see the pain you caused. You watched the bullets rip into him, and you watched blood pour out of him, as he got paler, and paler until he was white, and there was a sick sense of beauty in it. White represents innocence, red, blood. Pain. War. Carnage. He was protecting you, the innocent child from this twisted elegance, this silence. You shattered.

You spoke at his funeral, tears streaming down relentlessly as you did so. There was weak applause. You expected it. You caused his death, after all. His last moments kept playing out in your mind the whole time. You went to your room. When you came out, it was a mess. There were books and movies thrown across. Pictures broken, their frames shattered into glittering dust on the ground. There was this same eerie beauty. You had blood everywhere, but you waved it off. 'I fell on some glass,' you said. That explained the cursing.

You would wander to his favorite places; that cafe that always had a broken coffee machine, the book store he would always bring you to, that fancy restaurant where he had his first kiss, and where a few years later, he punched the guy who cheated on you in the face. On those days you would smile, and that was wrong, that the only true smiles you could form were when you were in the past. 

After a year, you had good and bad days. On the good days, you would give friends tentative smiles. One the bad, scream and shout, lock the door, refuse to eat. You gained a fondness for leggings and long-sleeved shirts.

The day after a month of true smiles, your friends came over. The ones with weaker stomachs fainted. The rest screamed. It was a horrible sight. Your clothes were stained with blood. There were cuts everywhere, perhaps to mimic the bullets. Your mouth was gruesomely sewn up. There was a bullet in your head, and a message on the wall. 'Loose lips sink ships,' it said. 'Goodnight little chatterbox.'

There were no words from your mouth anymore.


End file.
